


The Fair Sex

by SCFrankles



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Genderswap, gentle humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles
Summary: Miss Jane Watson comes to London in search of her brother Henry but instead meets a ‘Mrs. Hudson’...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 20
Collections: Watson's Woes WAdvent 2019





	The Fair Sex

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 10 of [WAdvent](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/tag/comm+event:+wadvent) 2019 at Watson's Woes on DW.
> 
> * * *

My mother had died when I was still a small child, and my father passed away when I had just turned twenty-five—ironically from a minor accidental injury becoming infected, after having survived a long career in the army. So, an unmarried orphan, I was left without any family at all in India. 

I spent some time ministering to my grief, cursing fate and my situation but eventually decided to leave my work as a nurse and return “home” to England, a place I had never even visited before. My only brother had moved there many years ago and my father and I had lost contact. I had vague ideas of tracking down my brother and telling him our father was now gone too. And after that…? I had no clear plans.

With my very modest inheritance, and a cherished keepsake of my late father, I sailed to Portsmouth and made my way to London, the source of my brother’s last known address. I found a respectable hotel and did in fact manage to locate an old friend of my brother’s—a Mr. Stamford. However, he had not heard from Henry in two or three years. 

The trail had immediately gone cold. I was unsure of what to do next. Find work in London? In any case, I knew my money would not last long living in a hotel and I needed to find cheaper quarters. 

And here Mr. Stamford _was_ able to help me. He had briefly lodged at a place in Baker Street and knew there was a room available there. He did seem a little hesitant recommending it to me though. “You may find the landlady is not to your taste. She is an unusual person.”

However this only served to intrigue me and I agreed to inspect the lodgings of this Mrs. Hudson. 

When I knocked on the door, it was opened by a page of about twelve. Plump and solemn with impeccable manners, and with a remarkably intelligent gaze for one so young. He showed me into a sitting room on the ground floor, then went to fetch the landlady.

And I was surprised when she entered. I had been expecting a matronly woman but Mrs. Hudson was slightly younger than myself, tall and elegant, with dark, neat hair and piercing eyes, similar to those of her page. 

“Mrs. Hudson…?” I asked. 

“Yes, indeed!” she beamed. Had I noticed just the smallest hesitation before she confirmed her name? Recently married? Only briefly married before being widowed? I glanced at her left hand. The ring seemed old in both age and style. 

I set my prying thoughts to one side and we began the interview.

We got on as well as two hitherto strangers could be expected to. Mrs. Hudson seemed pleased with me and took me up to the next floor to show me my potential rooms. 

She opened the door to the small sitting room with a flourish. “I had been using it as… well, as a kind of office and reception room! But I’ve cleared it up for you.”

I smiled politely because I had never seen a greater disaster of a room. There were papers piled high everywhere and a thick layer of dust on most surfaces. Here and there small islands of relative cleanliness had inexpertly been cleared with a cloth. 

“Do you… have a maid?” I asked faintly.

“Oh, no! Do all the work myself, you know. Well, saves money and keeps me off the cocaine!”

I was not sure if she was joking or not. In any case, it appeared Mrs. Hudson was somewhat Bohemian in her lifestyle. 

But those of limited means cannot afford to be choosy. I accepted the terms and became Mrs. Hudson’s new tenant. 

I kept myself to myself, and Mrs. Hudson did mostly likewise. I did learn though that the page was her younger brother, Mycroft. Making conversation, I asked if he was still attending school and Mrs. Hudson seemed to find that most amusing. She informed me he was in fact teaching himself until he was old enough to go to Oxford and to be honest, watching that studious young man, I could well believe it. She also told me that the house had been left to them by their late parents. However, she was not as forthcoming about Mr. Hudson. Though there was a photograph of an utterly unremarkable young man on prominent display in her sitting room, there was a certain vagueness as to where he was and as to whether he was living or dead.

So presumably the brother and sister were living on an inheritance and the income from any tenants. Though… after a while it seemed to become apparent Mrs. Hudson was running a second business from her home. People of all kinds were visiting at all hours of the day and night, and if I ever happened to be in the hallway when they arrived, she would hurry them away from me into her quarters. Naturally, at first I thought nothing of this but then certain suspicions began to form in my mind as to what business an attractive young woman might be conducting with all those strangers. I did always try to be open-minded and I was a nurse—I had seen a fair amount of life and was no longer shocked by much. And a “fallen woman” in her twenties would then have the capital to be a successful and socially respectable business woman in her thirties. But I had to consider my vulnerable position. I was a young unmarried woman with no family, and I was not willing to risk my own reputation. I decided I had to leave.

I politely gave notice to Mrs. Hudson without giving any indication of my misgivings about her personal situation, simply telling her it was time for me to move on. However, she gave me a searching look and I had the embarrassing feeling she was reading my mind as to the reason I was going.

“Miss Watson,” she said. “I wonder if you would take a cup of tea with me?”

I agreed of course. I liked and respected the woman, no matter how she made her living. 

She bustled around preparing the tea. I was rather impressed. Despite her general deficiencies as a housekeeper, she made tea with the skill and close attention of a chemist. 

The cup of tea she handed to me was delicious, and I sipped at it gratefully.

Mrs. Hudson sat down opposite me and hesitated. “Miss Watson… I believe you are leaving because you are uncertain about my… business activities.”

I shook my head even though she was right. “This is your house and you are free to do what you will in it. I simply feel I shou—”

Mrs. Hudson held up a hand. “I think you may be under a misapprehension. And I want you to know all the… details… before you make a final decision.”

I fear I may have blushed at this because Mrs. Hudson hurried on.

“Firstly,” she said. “My name is not Mrs. Hudson. It is Miss Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

I nodded. I had half expected that her presenting herself as a married woman was a mere subterfuge. A protective persona.

“Mycroft is indeed my brother and we did inherit the house from our parents. Renting out the occasional room ensures we have a steady source of income. But I do have a second main business that I am in the process of developing.”

I gritted my teeth and nodded in sympathy.

“I am… a consulting detective.”

I nodded again. “Yes, of course. And I perfectly understand why you— I’m sorry?” The platitude died on my lips. I had not been expecting _that._

She smiled a little. “I have always had a gift for observation. And I have developed it over many years with my own studies. Now if other detectives need help they consult me.” She shrugged a little. “Though my business is being slow to take off because, well, not everyone wishes to consult a woman. But the more open-minded happily acknowledge my skills.” 

Miss Holmes regarded me with a serious expression. 

“And now you know everything. I hope you will change your mind and keep your rooms.”

I was greatly intrigued by all this and, I am somewhat ashamed to admit, relieved. However, I was not sure that it greatly changed the situation. Would my reputation not still be under scrutiny as men came to the house at all hours? I gave Miss Holmes a small smile. “I shall consider it.”

There was now a slight awkwardness between myself and my landlady. I knew I had to make up my mind one way or another, and allow her to find another tenant if I was truly going to leave.

One evening as I coming home from a pensive walk, she was just leaving with a small, sharp-featured man who she introduced to me as Inspector Lestrade. “I am going to examine the scene of a crime. I wonder, Miss Watson if…”

But she came to an uncomfortable halt, and then moved past me with a polite nod. The inspector gave me a brief curious glance before echoing the nod and following on after Miss Holmes. 

Was that going to be an invitation to view her work and assess its respectability? To encourage me to stay? I was not certain that wandering London late into the night was going to be any inducement. 

The next day Miss Holmes seemed to be in an unfamiliar state of anxiety and distraction. I had not seen her bring in my breakfast—nor did I see her take the tray away again—but the state of the meal was a little haphazard. Miss Holmes had then gone out, and on her return I could hear her from my sitting room, pacing about and moving furniture. I thought I might have heard a little weeping at times too. In the end I could bear it no longer and went down to her quarters to see if I could help.

She attempted a smile when she saw me. “It is nothing, Miss Watson. I have simply lost my wedding ring!” She gestured awkwardly. “That is to say, Mama’s wedding ring. She gave it to me in her last days.” She was suppressing tears again. “It is so precious to me. It is a little too big but I didn’t want to make any adjustments to it.” She shook her head, angry at herself. “Wretched emotions! If it were someone else’s property I could follow a logical chain of reasoning and recover it. But I can’t work out where I last saw it, and I can’t concentrate on anything else either.”

“Did you perhaps lose it last night at the crime scene?” I asked tentatively.

“No! I have been back there and looked everywhere!”

I did not doubt that Miss Holmes would have found it if was there. I left her to her search and went back to my rooms. I found it difficult to see my landlady in such distress and her missing ring began to play on my mind too. I understood what it was like to have lost parents, and I thought of that personal item of my father’s that I had brought with me. I would not want to lose it. 

I thought back. I often saw the ring on Miss Holmes’s finger. And… I often heard it too. She did not often consider my privacy and would silently bring in my meals without knocking—also collecting the tray without alerting me. Often the first I would be aware of her presence was when she touched the tray and I heard the clink of the ring against the metal. But _yesterday_ —and today too—the tray had disappeared without my being aware of it at all. She had not been wearing the ring!

So, she had probably lost it, not last night, but sometime in the day before. Was it still in the house?

I shook my head. I did not think so. I did not doubt Miss Holmes’s ability to find the ring if it was here, despite her distraction. No, she must be looking in the wrong place altogether. So where had she been investigating yesterday?

She was still using my sitting room for storing her notes of her cases. I do not think it had occurred to her that this too might be an intrusion upon my privacy. However, now it was a splendid opportunity to make a few investigations.

Finding the most recent entry was easy, thank heavens. 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Not much of interest in the case itself—a suspected attempted burglary at an empty house with some petty vandalism thrown in due to the burglar’s disappointment. 

I put on my coat and went downstairs. I glanced into Miss Holmes’s quarters. She was sitting on her sofa, drinking a cup of tea and looking terribly sad. I decided to say nothing until I had done some investigations myself. I did not wish to raise her hopes, only to dash them. 

I let myself quietly out of the house and took a cab to Lauriston Gardens. 

There were no police there at no. 3. That was to be expected—it was not as though it was a murder scene or anything of that nature. I went up to the front door and found it was unlocked—indeed the lock was entirely broken. So I entered the shabby house—cautiously but with assumed confidence, as though I had every right to be there. 

I looked around the sitting room. It was completely empty of furniture but there was a pot half-full of red paint with a brush thrown down beside it. Apparently the owners had been attempting to smarten the house somewhat in the vain hope of renting it out, and whoever had broken in had used the opportunity to spread the paint over the floor and walls. 

I moved tentatively around, hoping that the ring would be lying in clear sight on the floor. However, I had no such luck. I began casting my eye over the stripes of paint. Most were random smears caused by the brush being slapped roughly across the walls. But in one corner the brush strokes seemed to be forming a word. I went and stared at it. It was double Dutch for a moment before it suddenly made sense and I blushed. The vandal had chosen to express himself with the word “ARSE”. I shook my head, and looked closer at it. 

A second artist, with a finger but a great deal more neatly, had written above in paint: “Lestrade is an”. I laughed abruptly and put a hand to my mouth, despite being safely alone. Underneath the “ARSE”, the second artist had concluded with the signature _Inspector Tobias… Gregson_? The end of the name was somewhat smudged. 

I stood back and chortled a little to myself. I highly doubted this Inspector Gregson was actually responsible for those additions. The true culprit had caught part of her rather feminine-looking left hand in the drips of paint from the first vandal’s work. Presumably she had pressed hard on the wall to balance herself as she wrote swiftly with her right hand, I mused as I considered the writing again. And the final letter was smudged… because she had been almost caught at her handiwork and she had turned away quickly? Perhaps when either Lestrade or Gregson had come in. 

I grinned to myself at this thumbnail portrait. Guardian for her brother, a landlady, a housekeeper, and a consulting detective, but Miss Holmes was still at heart a mischievous little girl with a penchant for practical jokes and pawky humour. 

Because I was _sure_ that was her handprint. I gazed at it again. It was a partial print, just the little finger, ring finger and middle finger. But Miss Holmes had pressed firmly. I looked closer. All the fingers looked similar in that they clearly showed the texture of the skin along the entirety of their length…

The penny suddenly dropped. I did not think Miss Holmes had been wearing her ring while painting. 

What would have been the logical thing to do? She wouldn’t have wanted to risk getting paint on the ring while she was having her fun. And there was no furniture in the room to lay it on… I walked to the mantelpiece.

And there was the ring, carefully placed on the edge nearest to the “graffiti.” I picked it up in triumph, beaming all over my face. Miss Holmes’s presumably rarely took the ring off, even when washing. She took it off in an unfamiliar place, one of the inspectors had almost caught her at her vandalism— And she had hurried out, forgetting the ring was not on her finger. It appeared Miss Holmes was as human as the rest of us. 

I took another cab back to Baker Street and let myself in. Miss Holmes was still where I had left her, disconsolately slumped on the sofa. It touched my heart. I made my way into the room and sat down carefully by her side.

“Miss Holmes, I have found your ring.”

She looked up at me, then at what I was holding between my thumb and forefinger. Her eyes widened. “And I was so sure it was not in your rooms!” She took it from me and clutched it tightly in her hand. She beamed at me. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“It was my pleasure.” I smiled back at her. “But it was not in my rooms. It was at Lauriston Gardens.”

Miss Holmes frowned and then her eyes widened again. “Oh, of course!” She shook her head ruefully. “I am such a fool! I should have remembered!”

“We all make mistakes, Miss Holmes!” I smiled at her. “And it gave me the opportunity to do a little detective work of my own. It was rather enjoyable.”

I looked at my landlady. I had finally made up my mind. 

“Miss Holmes, I have a proposal.”

Miss Holmes opened her fist and looked down at the ring on her open palm, and then up at me with a raised eyebrow.

I grinned in acknowledgement of the joke. “My proposal is _this_. I will stay on as your tenant—”

“Ah, wonderful!” Miss Holmes’s eyes lit up with delight. 

I held up a hand. “However... “ I sighed. “...you must agree to advertise for a real ‘Mrs. Hudson’. And a maid.” I tentatively reached out with my hand and patted hers. “Not everyone has the necessary ability to be a housekeeper, you know, and there is no shame in that. It’s just… I think you need a professional to take over in that sphere.”

“I fear… perhaps you are right.” Miss Holmes’s broad smile told me that she was not offended though. “And I have my own proposal to make. You’ve had a taste of detective work, and so perhaps you would like to occasionally accompany me at my investigations. So you can see I’m not quite as disreputable as you feared.” She gave a little shrug. “And it is a tiresome fact, but it is sometimes safer for a woman to have a companion when going about this city.”

I hesitated for a moment. Perhaps my reputation was robust enough to take a little risk. And perhaps I was not quite as conventional as I pretended to be. I thought of my treasured possession that had formerly belonged to my late father. 

“I would be honoured,” I said. I smiled cautiously. “Would you perhaps like me to bring my father’s service revolver along? I’m a… pretty good shot.”

Miss Holmes looked at me in delighted surprise. “That would be _most_ satisfactory.” She smiled. “Thank you, Miss Watson.”

I grinned. “You are most welcome, Miss Holmes.”


End file.
